


Not So Much a Poem, But Rather a Play

by the_bloss



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, but what else would you expect in a story with johnson?, jack's only mentioned in passing, just go with it, shit gets kinda meta, this is kind of weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 15:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8377930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bloss/pseuds/the_bloss
Summary: “Der Mensch kann tun was er will; er kann aber nicht wollen was er will.Man can do what he wills but he cannot will what he wills.”― Arthur Schopenhauer, Essays and Aphorisms





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the following quote:
> 
> “According to most philosophers, God, in making the world, enslaved it. According to Christianity, in making it, He set it free. God had written, not so much a poem, but rather a play...”  
> ― G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Contrary to popular belief, Johnson is not all-knowing. Yes, he knows more than his fellow characters and yes, he’s privy to all the media available to readers, but that’s about it. It’s a strange sensation, knowing your God but not having it make any difference.

So, it takes Johnson a little while to realize that he’s in an AU.

His fondness for Bitty was a given. It’s essential that he care about the main character because, well, _everybody_ has to care about Bitty in some capacity. So even though the feeling started early, it still took until halfway through the fall semester for Johnson to realize that _Oh. These are definitely feelings of attraction. Feelings of attraction that I want to act on._

And really, now that Johnson is paying attention, he senses the shift. He no longer catches speech bubbles in the corner of his vision. He’s been thinking in full sentences lately. He knows now that he is not Canon!Johnson, because Canon!Johnson (Johnson1) has a girlfriend, has _had_ a girlfriend for two years now, and Johnson can already feel that fact being glossed over in transformative fanworks.

And that’s not even mentioning how little he cares about Jack all of a sudden.

So Johnson wasn’t Johnson1 and that was fine, really. It just…took a little time to get over the existential crisis that was realizing you weren’t and could never be the prime version of your own self.

But whatever. It’s cool.

Being in this AU definitely has its perks. Johnson actually gets to experience his interactions with Bitty instead of just getting a faint recollection of them after reading his twitter.

He gets more interaction. He gets to let his gaze linger and take in just how beautiful Bitty is. His huge, dark eyes, the golden waves of his hair, his impossibly slim waist and toned legs. Johnson gets to make use of his supposedly attractive features, he gets to know that Bitty likes men before he comes out, and he gets to make him feel safe.

He gets to _flirt_.

And maybe that’s the best part: he gets to actually _talk_ to Bitty like a person and not as a quirky goddamn plot device.

“Hey, Bits.”

“Oh! Hi, John.”

Bitty calls him “John.” It’s cute. He’s pretty sure Canon!Bitty (Bitty1) never calls Johnson1 by his first name.

Johnson spends a moment observing Bitty’s characteristic puttering about the kitchen before asking, “What’re you making?”

Bitty immediately starts in. “Well, I was originally gonna try this blondie recipe my mama sent me, but we didn’t have any brown sugar—honestly, how do you boys manage to clean me out completely? I swear I just bought brown sugar! —anyway, no brown sugar, and you could not _pay me_ to make a Murder run with the weather like this—” Bitty gestures to the cold November rain currently dripping from the gutters ringing the Reading Room before continuing, “But I snuck a bunch of apples out of the dining hall—I could see Sybil givin’ me the stink eye, but if I’m payin’ so much for a meal plan, you best believe I’m gonna take _full_ advantage of it, and—”

Johnson rests his jaw in the cradle of his hand as he listens to Bitty eventually explain what he’s making, complete with a half-dozen tangents and accompanied by the steady patter of rain. Even in the weak, gray light, Bitty is beautiful, his hair and eyes seemingly lit from within in the dim of the kitchen. He has a streak of flour across his cheek because _of course he does_ , but Johnson finds that it’s a trope he’s rather fond of.

Despite his, er… _nonlinear_ methods, Bitty is a good story-teller, funny and relatable. Johnson laughs at a particularly spot-on comparison before grinning and chirping Bitty on how he really wasn’t one to talk about Sybil’s protectiveness of food. Bitty snorts and then he’s laughing too and _god_ , Johnson is so happy here in this awful frat kitchen that can claim its own bit of sunshine even on days as bleak and damp as this one. Johnson runs his hand through his hair, a little bashful about how much Bitty affects him.

He doesn’t miss how Bitty’s eyes catch on the movement.

And Johnson hopes. He hopes that that was something he was supposed to pick up on. He hopes this isn’t some sort of joke. In spite of himself, and all that he knows of Johnson1, he hopes that he gets to have this.

So he holds Bitty’s eyes and allows his own to soften as their laughter dies. Johnson knows it wouldn’t be fair to push Bitty too soon, to do this when Bitty1 isn’t due to come out for another month or so. But as he searches Bitty’s face, taking in his pink-tinged cheeks and bright eyes, the quirk of his brows directly offset by an opposite quirk in his mouth, he gets an overwhelming sense that Bitty already _knows_ what Johnson’s considering asking.

A steady inhale, unwavering eye contact, then: “Hey, Bits?”

Bitty holds his gaze and gives a short _hmm_ to indicate his attention.

“So, I don’t even know if this is something you would theoretically be interested in,” (A lie, but Johnson’s not about to force Bitty out in case he’s reading this wrong), “But, would you maybe want to get dinner with me some time?”

Bitty’s cheeks get a little pinker and he gives a considering little hum before asking, “As a date?”

“Yeah. If you want to?” Johnson hadn’t meant to make that a question, but whatever.

There’s a beat of silence punctuated by the rumble of distant thunder, the whistling in the attic window, the drip of the faucet. Bitty looks like he’s holding his breath. Johnson knows he’s holding his.

“Yeah,” Bitty finally breathes out. It’s soft, lilting, almost like he’s surprised by how sure his answer sounds. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

And wow, Johnson’s pretty sure that his canon counterpart isn’t this much of a sap, but he can feel the grin spreading across his face, the heat in his cheeks, and damn near every cliché in his chest: butterflies, fireworks, champagne bubbles, the works.

It takes Johnson a surprising amount of willpower to not leap up, cross the kitchen, and get his arms around Bitty’s warm, compact body, but his concern for Bitty’s evident issues with sudden physicality and the desire to never let Bitty’s pink, grin-stretched cheeks out of his sight help.  

Johnson does everything in his power to keep Bitty’s expression somewhere in that range: cheeks glowing anywhere from the creamy pink from the inside of a shell to the ripe red of a tomato, smile sitting somewhere between a quiet, chirping smirk and a full-blown, dazzling grin.

His efforts seem to be effective. The initial first date awkwardness dissolves so fast Johnson wonders if it was even there in the first place.

Bitty still comes out to Shitty first, only Johnson’s right there beside him this time, no flashcards needed.

They suffer the expected amount of chirping, but that doesn’t stop Bitty’s eyes from crinkling a little at the corners when he taps his helmet to Johnson’s at games.

Johnson begins to factor Sin Bin contributions into his monthly budget just so he can plant kisses on Bitty’s forehead and put his hand in Bitty’s back pocket as they walk to Faber.

The first time Bitty spends the night, Johnson is just about to slip into a peaceful, inconsequential sleep, when he suddenly realizes that he’s aware of Jack. Jack, across the hall, lying awake and desperately trying to forget the quiet creaking and barely discernible moans he had been uncomfortably tuned in to an hour previously. Jack, distinctly bothered by Bitty and Johnson’s relationship without knowing why. Jack, probably already a little in love with Bitty.

And Johnson, well. Johnson can guess what this means.                                

His okay-I-guess-I’m-in-an-AU crisis doesn’t even come close to the sucker punch this knowledge has just dealt to his gut. Because Johnson’s aware of Jack. He’s aware of Jack’s _feelings_. Which means.

Johnson is just a pit stop, isn’t he? A detour on Bitty’s path to his actual endgame. A god damn “canon-compliant” joke.

He was never meant to have this.

And that…that should be fine. Right? It’s good that he knows now before he gets really and truly invested. Because he’s not. Invested. Right now. He has the ability to do what his character is meant to do and just…bow out. Maybe leave Bitty a little confused and a little hurt, but with more experience and confidence. Help shape Bitty into his sophomore self, prepare him to properly discover Jack and unknowingly woo him.

So Johnson settles in the dark and waits. His arms are still around Bitty, his nose still buried in his golden waves, and Johnson’s not quite tense, but alert. He waits for the dissociation. He waits for that sense of agreeable detachment and affable numbness to wash over him. He waits to return to before, revert to Johnson1, go back to when the metaphysical could drown out the physical.

And that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Johnson’s meant to be a play actor, and not a particularly good one. He’s meant to go through the motions, say the right lines, and little else. He’s not meant to live in the moment, to emote and react and _be present_. Yet somewhere along the line, Johnson took up method acting and lost sight of the overarching narrative. Stanislavsky would be proud.

So Johnson lies in the dark with his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for his blasé humor to return and for the warm ache in his chest to settle and disperse and oh god now there are tears and—

They stop. The tears stop as that warm ache doesn’t disperse but instead calcifies into something dark and dense in his chest. Johnson’s eyes fly open and they’re looking at the back of Bitty’s neck but not really seeing it. His arms tighten involuntarily around Bitty’s midsection, he’s bracing for something, and alarm bells are going off somewhere and

no

NO

No I ekslkjeWould lkeYoulskejlksfj JustLKsjioelkslListen lwkjelkjoiaggLet GO

NO! NO NO NO NO NO!

_…_

…

_…“No”?_

You heard me.

_I did._

I can hear you.

_Yes._

…

_…_

So…?

_“So”…?_

Would you stop repeating everything I say?!

_I don’t know what you want me to say. You seemed to want to take the lead here._

Okay. Yeah.

_…_

…

_…Were you gonna say anything, or…?_

No. Yeah. I mean. What the hell?! Why…why is it okay to just…to just. Tease me with a chance at a real, fleshed-out existence and then. And then just. RIP IT AWAY what the FUCK—

_Whoa, whoa, buddy, calm down—_

—and I have to be fucking AWARE of it THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME for what?! For a fucking JOKE??!?!!

_You’re gonna wake Bitty, man—_

What the FUCK does THAT even matter. HE’S fictional, I’M fictional, and you and I BOTH KNOW he won’t wake up unless YOU MAKE THAT HAPPEN you FUCK—

_Look—_

No, YOU look, asshole. It’s one thing to inflict pain on characters who don’t know any better, but it’s a WHOLE OTHER THING to drop someone into a pit of angst and then give them pointless AUTONOMY on top of it, and—

_Whoa whoa whoa, who said you were autonomous?_

…what?

_Um._

…Aren’t I?

_…_

AREN’T I?!

_…Well, no._

What.

_You’re self-aware. Not autonomous. Those are distinctly different things._

…

_…_

So I—

_..._

So I—there was never. There was never anything…that was me?

_…_

…Nothing was ever me? Not the—not the thoughts, not the losing of myself in the narrative, not—not.

_…_

…Not loving Bitty.

_…hey, man…_

No. NO. Just—stop. Even…this. Right now. This…rebellion. Was even that…?

_…planned?_

Yeah.

_…_

Answer me!—

— _yes._

…

_…_

I never had any choice at all, did I?

_I’m afraid not._

…

_…_

How cruel.

_I know._

…

 

_I’m sorry._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> idk if this counts as self-insert or not I'm sorry
> 
> can you even tag the author as a character??
> 
> this is the weirdest thing I've ever written
> 
> My CP sideblog is kent-parsons-cowlick, if you want to come talk about meta mechanics with me. This is also posted there: [https://kent-parsons-cowlick.tumblr.com/post/152314335236/not-so-much-a-poem-but-rather-a-play]()


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